Mauvin circled Reuben, studying him. “Care to try out the new equipment?” He had a mischievous glint in his eye. “I did promise to train you, remember?”
Reuben felt as if a bumblebee hummed around him, unsure if it might sting. Until recently, Reuben’s experience with nobles hadn’t been good. “I thought you were joking. And I do have to—”
“Pickerings don’t joke about sword fighting. Now draw your weapon.”
Certain he was about to be humiliated by a boy three years younger, Reuben nevertheless drew his blade. It sang in a way no sword he had ever touched before had. A high ring that sounded deadly.
“Guard up.”
Reuben raised the blade. So much lighter than the others he had practiced with.
“Is that your stance? Good Maribor, what have they been teaching you? Fanen!”
His brother walked behind Reuben and repositioned him like he was a doll. Dropping on his knees, the boy grabbed Reuben’s ankles and shifted his feet. “Left foot back and turned out,” Fanen muttered. “Right foot forward.”
When he was done, Reuben was standing sideways and feeling a bit awkward.
“Okay, now bend your knees—just a little—and get up on the balls of your feet. Okay, good. Now attack me.”
Sharp as a razor.
Reuben made a weak effort, and Mauvin raised his eyebrows. “Are you joking?”
“This sword is sharp. I’d rather not hurt a nobleman in—”
Mauvin rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You stand about as much chance of touching me with that blade as you do of marrying the princess. Now c’mon.”
Reuben knew Mauvin hadn’t meant it—well, he did, but he couldn’t have known his words had cut deeper than his sword was ever likely to. Still, it made attacking Mauvin easier.
Reuben stepped forward and made two attempts to swing before Mauvin stopped him. “It’s not a bloody axe, Hilfred. Think of it more like a knife. You wouldn’t hammer at a loaf of bread the way you split logs, would you? This is a blade. Slice, stab, use your wrist as well as your arm.”
“He’s not even holding the grip right.” Fanen pointed at his hand.
Mauvin and Fanen taught him together, starting with his grip, then his feet. He learned to shuffle instead of step. Then it was thrusts and finally parries. Fanen eventually got bored, snatched up the apple, and sat down on the stone bench next to the rosebushes. He bit into the fruit and, holding it clutched in his teeth, began jotting something down with a bit of graphite into a small book of parchment.
Mauvin rolled his eyes at his brother. “More poetry?”
Fanen ignored him.
“Okay, Hilfred, try that move again, only this time—”
“Sorry,” Reuben said. “I really do appreciate this, but I have something very important I must do.”
Mauvin’s shoulders slumped.
“I’m sorry. I really have to go.”
Mauvin sighed. “We didn’t get far, but Alric ought to sleep a little better knowing at least one of his guards understands the basics. Well … good luck tonight.”
Reuben didn’t know if he should bow or what. He opted for a polite head bob and then jogged down the hill toward the barracks. His father had to be back by now. As he ran, he felt his new sword clap his thigh and a small smile pulled at his lips. The prince had given him a sword. The prince! And the Pickerings had taught him fencing—actually taught him, instead of pummeling him senseless. His elation was tempered when he concluded they were only using him to sneak out. The three were buying his silence with pretend friendship. Nobles didn’t make friends with common soldiers. Still, the sword was nice—he might even get to keep it—and he had to admit he did feel a bit more confident using it, now that Mauvin had explained things better. When going through basic training, he had failed to learn much. The instructors spent all their time with the noble boys, while he was left to watch over their shoulders. His practice was against fence posts, as the others had refused to pair off with him. His two sparrings with Mauvin were the first real practices he had ever experienced.
“Where you been, boy?” Richard Hilfred barked as soon as Reuben entered.
Reuben knew the tone—a harsh accusation, with the snap of military authority. His father sat at the little table. His shirt was off, his feet bare, everything else cast on the floor. His father’s uniform had never touched the ground before, and Reuben stared at the crumpled tunic as if it were a dead body.
“I was getting my chain and—”
His father stood and struck Reuben with his left fist. He swung backhand but had put his weight into the blow. Reuben fell, hitting the door with his head on the way down. There was a loud hollow thunk, but he couldn’t tell if the sound came from the door or his skull.
“What’d I tell you about getting noticed? What’d I tell you about the greats? Stupid kid.”
Only then did he notice his father had a dark bottle in his right hand. Reuben wondered if that was why he used his left hand. When struck, he had thought maybe his father was softening the blow, but now he wondered if he just didn’t want to bother putting down the drink. His father lifted the bottle to his lips. He had to tilt the bottom high.
“You have no idea what these bastards are like,” he growled. “The moment you get mixed up with them you’re…” His father kicked the cot so that it hopped up, knocking the pillow to the floor. He sniffled, wiped his nose with his arm, and sat back down while taking another swig from the dark bottle. Reuben wondered where he got it. Bottles with labels were expensive, too expensive for soldiers, even members of the royal guard. “There’s no such thing as honor, Rue. Chivalry is a joke, an idea some rotter poet made up. A snowball in midsummer, that’s what it is. A chicken that can lay golden eggs. The great ones pretend to keep it for themselves so that fools like us will think it’s real, but it’s all lies. Remember that, boy.”
Reuben got up. His face stung and he could taste blood from where his teeth cut the inside of his mouth. He stood on the far side of the room, his back pressed against the closed door. The distance afforded no real protection. The room was little more than twelve feet and his father need only take a step or two to hit him again.
“Take what you can get. Steal what you can get away with. And trust no one. Love no one. That’s the worst. Love is an awful thing. You let it in and it eats you from the inside. Turns your head around. You find yourself doing things, betraying yourself—and for what? For what! He could have done something. I … I risk my life every day for him, but what does he do for me? Where is he when I needed him?” He smacked his lips and sighed. “Everyone’s out for themselves. And you had better be too—we all have to be or we’ll be swallowed up.”
Reuben felt the rough wood of the door with his fingers as his tongue played with the cut in his cheek. He didn’t dare move or speak, but he knew he had to. Even if that meant another blow. Even if it brought the right hand. Even if his father forgot he still held the bottle. He had to tell his father the king was in danger. Maybe the news would snap him out of it. Looking back at the uniform, he doubted that.
His father sat down hard on the chair. Reuben took that as a good sign. He might not want to bother getting up just to kill his son.
“And you … what were you thinking? Raised by a woman, fussed over until you’re good for nothing but merchant work. That’s all boys raised by women are good for. Soft, pink things that think too much. Beware of thinking too much, boy. That, too, will get you in trouble.”